Season of Sacrifice

by Bharti Kirchner

  He’d looked up at her for a moment, as though he’d been expecting this, and given her a wordless nod. The frustrations she’d kept bottled inside poured out, all the neglect, all the ‘why’s,’ the accumulation of sadness congested in her chest. As though swept up in a wave of power, she sat boldly, her back straight.

  Head down, glassy-eyed, he’d listened without denying, arguing or confessing that he was cheating on her. In the end, he’d stood up and shot out the door, not listening to her call from behind and stealing all the light from the room.

  Veen broke her trance. ‘What the hell is Justin doing with that broad? She’s cute but too young for him to fancy her. And did you notice how she walked? She’s probably a hooker. He dumped you for someone like that?’

  Oh, Veen, do you always have to say it like it is? Still, something nagged at Maya’s spirit. She called up the scene in the bakery to double-check her own impressions, hating herself for being so judgmental. Justin’s companion … Although animated in his company and kissy-faced, she appeared to be what some might call a lost soul. Beautiful and dangerous. Veen was right. It grated on Maya that Justin would shower his loser of a date with so much care and attention. Just now Maya had detected a different side to Justin. It was as though he’d made a commitment to her, something he’d been unable to do with Maya.

  ‘He could be faking the relationship,’ Maya said, knowing that was unlikely. ‘She might mean nothing to him.’ If Justin was undercover, he would stay clear of places where he could bump into people who might recognize him. Still, she ventured, ‘She could be an informant or a cousin?’

  ‘Informant? Backseat of the police car type of informant? Cousin? Pardon my bluntness, Maya, but you could see for yourself he wasn’t treating her like his little sister.’

  Maya concentrated on the river of traffic around them, waves of cars merging and separating, reckless, speedy and uncaring, while raindrops struck the road like a thousand little slaps on the face. ‘Where to?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Well, I thought a cup of tea would make me feel whole.’ Veen watched Maya’s face. ‘Now I’d like to get fucking high. Dang, my back hurts. Shall we hit the happy hour someplace before it gets any crazier?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ After this downer, a drink, a dim room and the sound of boozy laughter sounded like a spa visit. Maya sailed into the traffic.

  THIRTEEN

  A day later, at about 9:45 a.m., Maya was weaving through the streets of the bustling Lake City neighborhood, a few errands in mind, when she got a call from Hank. It had to be about Ivan. In the days that had passed since the deaths, she’d spent time on Ivan’s trail. He seemed to frequent Betty’s Breakfast on Northeast 45th Street, a tip she’d passed on to Hank. Noting the urgency in Hank’s voice, she pulled over to the curb.

  ‘Ivan and his best bud showed themselves at Betty’s this morning, as expected,’ Hank said. ‘I eavesdropped on their chit-chat. Kinda cool. I sort of got that Ivan had heard something terrible is going to happen today at ten o’clock at the intersection of Bryant Lane and Woodview Place. The dudes spoke a mixture of English and Russian. I didn’t get everything but Ivan mentioned that intersection more than once.’

  Maya’s shoulders shook. She studied her watch. She had fifteen minutes. ‘That’s where the meditation center is located. I’m not too far from it – I’ll head over there pronto.’

  ‘I could be wrong – you don’t have to rush like that. I’m new at this and just in case it’s risky to—’

  She’d brave it out. ‘No, no, I can’t take a chance on this.’

  ‘Call me if you need any help – OK?’

  Maya made a U-turn, drove, found a space and parked two blocks from the meditation center. She’d checked out the place once before: a single-story, flat-roof building painted white.

  Annexed to the north end of the building was a small square parking lot, empty of vehicles. On the sidewalk bordering the lot, a crowd of about ten people had gathered. A young Caucasian woman stood alone on a mat at the center of the lot.

  Heart beating faster, Maya watched her. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, late-thirties woman wore a white robe; a matching scarf embroidered with a lily design partially covered her head.

  Recent events swam before Maya’s eyes.

  Oh my God! Oh my God! Not again.

  Maya stepped aside, rummaged through her purse to retrieve her cellphone and dialed 911. She kept herself calm as she recited the address to the dispatch, explained the situation and insisted that help be sent without delay.

  Voice barely audible, the woman, still standing on the mat, delivered a speech. ‘I’m here to protest against the unbearable situation in Tibet …’

  The crowd listened to her in rapt attention. In between conveying to the dispatcher, once again, the urgency of the situation, Maya kept an eye on the woman.

  ‘Tibet, my love … Sylvie and Anna, your fiery passion burns in my soul.’

  A petrol canister, partly hidden under a towel, sat next to the woman.

  Jaw stiffening, gritting her teeth, terminating the call with the dispatch, Maya made her way to the front row. There’s still time.

  The woman bent down.

  Tiny black dots danced before Maya’s vision. ‘Please, don’t!’ she shouted as she raced to the woman. ‘Please.’

  A man disengaged from the crowd as if to join her. But it was too late.

  The woman had already poured liquid from the canister over her head and her clothing. She held what resembled a matchbox in her other hand.

  ‘Sylvie and Anna, my sisters, I join you,’ she uttered. A small scraping sound, a flickering light and fire leapt out hungrily.

  A fitful breeze picked up.

  The flame swirling about her, screaming from the pain, the woman collapsed on the mat.

  The crowd gasped. A passing car honked. Maya had seen this before, not long ago, when Sylvie and Anna died so tragically. This time, Maya wouldn’t be helpless. She took her cotton jacket off. She sprinted forward, dodging the crowd and, ignoring all the warnings, threw her jacket over the burning woman. She watched the jacket smother the flames. How long before the firemen arrive?

  Grayish smoke rose, even as the air heated up, striking Maya’s face and suffocating her. She couldn’t move.

  The wailing of a siren pierced the air and startled Maya. She took a few steps back. A fire truck, followed by an emergency medical van, pulled up to the curb. Two firemen jumped out and quickly doused the fire with their extinguishers.

  After checking the woman’s vital signs, they gently lifted her onto a stretcher, then into the van.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Maya asked a fireman, wiping off her sweaty temples with a hand.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he mumbled, without looking at her.

  Two hours later, Maya sat with Hank in the back room of her office. With the memories of the morning’s tragedy still so excruciating, she’d double-locked the front door, cancelled a meeting with a vendor who’d offered her a special deal with surveillance video cameras and neglected to return a call from Uma.

  ‘Hey, you look shaky,’ Hank said. ‘Next time, I’ll come with you to where it’s happening.’

  ‘No, you stay here or tail Ivan.’ Hank, who had offered her half of his caprese sandwich, tossed the plastic wrapper into the waste can. He plowed through the food, but Maya could barely pick up her portion of the sandwich or stir her tea.

  ‘Thanks for sharing,’ she said.

  Hank’s slender fingers picked up the remnant of a piece of flatbread. ‘I’m a wordsmith and wordsmiths are always ravenous.’

  Maya mentally logged a note to invite Hank for dinner at a future date. ‘Let’s check the news, shall we?’

  They browsed the latest headlines on her iPad.

  THIRD PUBLIC SUICIDE ATTEMPT

  ROCKS SEATTLE

  According to a police spokesman, the latest self-immolator has been identified as Tara Martin, age thirty-six, the former ow
ner of a beauty parlor, Salon Martin. She’s being treated for severe burns at Harborview Medical Center, where her condition is reported to be critical. Investigators found a suicide note in her apartment, which stated it was her own decision to end her life. Martin, who lived alone, suffered from bipolar disorder. In the opinion of her sister, Daniella Martin, Tara had made previous attempts. ‘She felt terrible and wanted to escape the pain. She couldn’t function. Even sold her hair-dressing salon, which had loyal customers. She didn’t have anything to live for.’

  The police spokesman declined to couple this incident with the recent fiery deaths of Sylvie Burton and Anna Kamala, although some of the public remain suspicious.

  Maya shrank against her chair. ‘Sylvie got her hair cut at Salon Martin. My guess is that Tara Martin, the original owner of that salon, chose the meditation center as her site in Sylvie’s memory. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop Tara. Severe burns can be fatal.’

  ‘But you called nine-one-one.’

  ‘Still, it tears me apart, this cluster of suicides. Let’s concentrate on Ivan. How did he know about the incident ahead of time? Might he also have been a client at Salon Martin? Did Tara tip him off, perhaps inadvertently?’

  ‘What will you do?’ Hank asked.

  ‘I’ll go visit that salon in a day or so when things have calmed down a bit. Now tell me about Ivan’s personal pal. What’s he like?’

  ‘Couldn’t get a good look at him without being obvious. I think I’ve seen him once before near the gym, meeting Ivan. I parked myself at a nearby table at Betty’s, with my back to them, and buried myself in my tablet. Only once did I turn around. I got that he’s of South-Asian origin, most likely from India, Bangladesh or Sri Lanka. I had many friends in college from that part of the world and can spot them. Ivan’s bud spoke both English and Russian fluently. How did he learn Russian? I’m jealous. I’m no good at languages. Anyway, he’s smart, hunky and acts like he owns the world. Has a stylish “do” – you should see it: a shiny pomp, the job of a blow-dryer and gels. He checked out the women. Paid the bill.’

  ‘Did he wear sunglasses?’ Maya asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Didn’t get that, either.’

  Maya asked Hank to track down Padmaraja, Tara Martin and Ivan Dunn online and even search court filings.

  ‘Will do,’ Hank said. ‘Ivan is still giving me pointers on swimming at the gym. There I’m known as Henry. The lessons are so exhausting that at night I’m swept away by slumber like driftwood on the shore.’

  Maya laughed, then rose from her chair. ‘How’s your latest short story coming along?’

  ‘My shitty first draft – it’s a real struggle.’ Hank’s face clouded. ‘When I workshopped it in my class last week, the comments I got were it needed a beginning hook. Should I have a hara-kiri in my first sentence? It’s a relationship story with a hot Japanese babe as the protagonist and change agent.’

  ‘Well, I’d stay away from an actual homicide. What if you had something like … If looks could strangle, he would have already been lying in his coffin?’

  ‘Mind if I use that sentence? It’s the next level. Thanks, Maya.’

  FOURTEEN

  The same day at four o’clock sharp, Maya answered the buzzer, feeling rather frazzled after the morning’s incident. Atticus stood, stiff and gloomy, dressed in a cotton shirt and khakis but without his crutches. Maya wondered if he’d gotten the terrible news. Why else wouldn’t this gorgeous day put a smile on the dour man’s face? He’d confessed the other day he’d be ecstatic to get rid of the crutches. He’d sounded interested and delighted over the phone to receive an invitation to tea at her house. And he’d also said, in a gushing manner, how he couldn’t wait to meet Maya’s mother since they hailed from the same state in India.

  Maya welcomed him and steered him to the side yard. Fenced on three sides, it was furnished with a marble-topped picnic table and a set of vintage chairs. The space buzzed with pink and gold-tinted perennials, although a strong wind earlier had caused most of the petals to drop. ‘My mother should be along shortly.’

  Atticus settled himself across from Maya. ‘This morning, the doctor examined me, announced I’d healed well and removed the cast. I’d have waltzed, except I don’t dance. To be able to walk on my own two feet, without those damn crutches … I only wish my apartment hadn’t been burgled.’

  ‘What? What happened?’

  ‘I got home and got a shock when I found the door unlocked. The intruders went through my stuff but didn’t take my computer, the sitar or my cash. I’d have thought it was my goddamn neighbors’ kids, except they smashed my guru’s photograph on the wall, as though they had a grudge against him. It’s like they smashed my chest.’

  Maya pondered for a moment. ‘Whoever broke in could possibly have planted a monitoring device in your apartment. Have you checked?’

  ‘Goodness gracious. How do I find it?’

  ‘I’ll have Hank run you through the bug detector procedure. And I’ll personally follow up with you.’

  The back door creaked. Maya’s gaze drifted over to Uma. Carrying a tray, she had popped out of the house and was approaching them. Maya made the introductions.

  Atticus folded his hands and bowed slightly. ‘My great pleasure to meet you, Mrs Mallick.’

  Uma, dignified in her voluminous white sari, uttered a greeting, folded herself into a chair across from Atticus and began pouring chai. Hand steady, her opal ring glinting in the sunlight, Uma asked about his family in India. The smile of warm reception she wore suggested she would like nothing better than to hear about the past and present of this new acquaintance. Maya excused herself, went back inside, called Hank and returned, only to find Uma and Atticus chatting like relatives. They did so over honey-colored chai and a stack of syrupy, pretzel-shaped, orange jalebis. Atticus, now warmed to Uma’s motherly gestures, addressed her as Mashima, aunt-mother.

  ‘So, I suppose this isn’t one of your meditation days?’ Maya asked, leading the discussion in the direction she wanted.

  Atticus picked up the floral-patterned throw pillow on the empty chair beside him and patted it. ‘No sitting this week. Our guru has cancelled all the sessions for the first time.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with another self-immolation in our fair city?’ Maya asked and checked Atticus’ reactions.

  The light in Atticus’ eyes grew dimmer; his voice had an edge of fright. ‘You already heard about it?’

  ‘Actually, I was there.’ She spilled the story, once again feeling the horror and the fear. ‘Strange – it happened on the parking lot of your meditation center.’

  ‘You’re asking why did she pick that site? I have no idea. Goddamned timing. I wanted to rush over there but stopped myself. What would be the point? The police would have cordoned off the place and my presence would have aroused suspicion.’

  ‘Are you involved in this in any way, Atticus?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Neither is our guru.’

  Uma sat rigid, then rose. ‘Excuse me a minute. I’ll check the latest developments.’ She moseyed off toward the back door, quite the tablet addict these days.

  Maya kept her eyes steady on Atticus. ‘Does Tara Martin, by any chance, belong to your meditation group?’

  ‘Thank the heavens, she doesn’t. I called our administrative staff. They checked their records. No one has ever heard of her.’ Atticus picked up his teacup but didn’t sip from it. ‘No meditation contact. Like Sylvie’s death, which had no association to our center.’

  ‘Not everyone is so sure. I’ve had a couple of visits with Ivan Dunn.’ As Maya spoke, she heard Ivan’s cold, hard, accusatory tone, saw the rigidity of his face. ‘He told me of his complaint to the authorities that the guru is the guilty party and should be investigated in connection to Sylvie’s death.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Atticus’ eyes flared up and it looked as though he might drop the teacup. ‘Ivan, the
hoodlum, tried to pin something on our beloved master? How dare he? Our guru is as pure as you can get and still live in the material world.’

  ‘Look, after a few incidents like this, spread only a couple of weeks apart—’

  ‘You’re not sold, I can see that, but it’s the truth.’

  ‘Ivan had the opportunity to observe Sylvie’s behavior, if not in her last days, at least in the weeks before. To my knowledge, more than anyone else, he’d been around Sylvie during that period. The sad picture he painted of her—’

  ‘You trust that pretty boy? He’s seen with all kinds of women.’

  She didn’t trust Ivan but decided to play the devil’s advocate to find out as much about him as possible. ‘If you have any proof about the pretty boy’s untrustworthiness in other matters, I’ll be all ears.’

  ‘His mother is Russian, for God’s sake, and he speaks the language. He could very well be mates with the bastards who beat me up. Those guys looked like bodybuilders, too, and spoke with a Russian accent.’

  Again, she’d take the opposing viewpoint. ‘I happened to have looked up the Russian population on the Internet after meeting Ivan. Ten thousand of them live here in Seattle. It’s indeed very possible that there’s no relation between Ivan and your assailants.’

  ‘So you’ve also fallen for that bad boy?’

  ‘No. What else can you tell me?’

  Atticus tipped himself back. ‘That good-for-nothing guy wasn’t worthy of Sylvie. She went downhill after she met him. It was hard to watch. Sylvie, usually the quietest person, always in control, started to get moody, then began to drink heavily. At first, I assumed it was job stress. I asked her. She said no – her work was going fine. She even confided in me about the breakthrough she’d made with her malaria research after years of hard work. No vaccine currently exists but she’d come up with a low-cost one, if the trials were successful. That was as much as she’d reveal to me.’

  Since she worked for Atticus, Maya would reveal a bit more. ‘At least one trial was successful. I’ve heard that Anna Kamala, a trial participant, didn’t catch the disease.’